


Storm Watch

by Hellesgift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellesgift/pseuds/Hellesgift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone's gotta ground the lightning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s like waiting for a thunderstorm. The air starts to crackle, dry and tight, as nerves fray and tempers shorten. You learn early how to time it, how to judge Sammy’s provocations and Dad’s responses, and after the first time you learn to wait until Sam storms out of the room, out to the car or into the bathroom, yelling or crying or just silently fuming.  
  
You learn what to use as a trigger--nothing to do with Sammy, ever--and you wait for lightning to build…   
  
It strikes. Sharp rage, then pain, regret.   
  
Air cleared, you wait for the next storm.  
  
  
  
It’s better when you’re big enough to fight back. Dad doesn’t end up guilty and drunk, just grabs your hand, pulls you up. “Teach you to underestimate your old man!” he’ll joke, and you laugh and wipe away blood.   
  
It lasts a little longer, the fight itself but the calm after, too. Another advantage.  
  
Sam thinks you’re both crazy. That’s the drawback. But Sam watching you pick a fight and get beat is better than…well, better than the alternative. Because Sam still gets it started, still primes the air for the storm.   
  
He doesn't know to watch, but you do.   
  
  
  
The last time is the worst, and it’s your fault because you screwed the timing. Sam’s announcement comes from nowhere, and you’re shocked silent when you should be mouthing off.   
  
Then Sam’s against the wall, and even Dad doesn’t seem to know the next move. You step in because you always have, even if it’s too late. You wish you could get Sam out of the room, though.  
  
Everything is bloody agony, and you hope you’re not the one screaming.   
  
Last thing you see is Sam’s terror as you fall, and you know you really fucked up. Failed them both.  
  
  
  
  
The third time Sam wakes you, you’re aware enough to know you’re in the car. Just the two of you...and lots of blood. Since Sam's driving, you figure most of it’s yours.   
  
“Sammy...”  
  
“You’re coming with me.”  
  
It’s a bit much for you and your concussion to handle. “Dad?”  
  
Sam won't look at you. “Dad agreed.”  
  
“Sam—“  
  
“He said you should...keep an eye on me.”  
  
There’s too much blood for just your wounds and his knuckles, but not enough for...  
  
 _Jesus._    
  
You’re not sure what you’re running from. But whether Dad said it or not, Sam knows now.   
  
“Okay, Sammy.”


	2. Chapter 2

You spend extra time getting the blood out from under Dean's nails, because you've never liked looking down at dirty fingernails and you figure Dean might be the same. Of course, as different as the two of you are, maybe Dean loves it. Maybe he likes to accessorize with bloody nails. Maybe he thinks red's his color.  
  
Probably not, though. You're not that different. Although sometimes you think you and Dean have less in common than anyone else on earth, despite sharing the same mother and father. Or maybe because of it. Sharing Dad did plenty to make you different.  
  
You don't focus on that, instead wiping the warm, wet rag gently between each of Dean's bloody fingers. He's hardly even broken his knuckles on this hand. Didn't have time. You don't want to think about that.  
  
"Just a little more, man. Get you all clean." You've been talking to him ever since you lugged him into the hotel, and he hasn't answered yet. You're not too worried. He talked in the car, made as much sense as he ever does when he's had his bells rung. You checked for head injuries and watched his pupils dilate, and everything's going to be okay. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. Just let me get your right hand now."   
  
It takes a while to unclench his fist, and you're patient, running your thumb down the tendons on the back of his hand until his fingers slowly release. The knuckles on this hand are smashed up a little. He got in one or two hits, at least, but it's hard to hit anything useful when you're on the ground. When the only thing coming at you is a booted foot, there's not a whole lot you can do with your fists.  
  
Not that you know that. Not personally. But you figured it out pretty quickly, watching Dean. This time.   
  
You wonder what you missed, all those other times.  
  
"Sammy?"  
  
The ragged voice startles you, and you grip too hard before you remember. Dean doesn't even wince.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What...what are you doing?"  
  
You try not to look up at his wild, confused eyes, and then you try not to think about what you've seen now that you have. "Just getting the blood off."   
  
"Blood." Dean sounds mazy, like he's half asleep or about to pass out again. "Lotta blood there, Sammy."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Sam--" and now Dean sounds a little more alert, hitching himself awkwardly up against the side of the bed and shaking his head. The line between his eyebrows suggests that headshaking wasn't the smartest move ever, but then when has Dean ever gone for smart. "Sam, there's a lotta blood here, man," and now he grabs at you, pulling you in close and pawing roughly, desperately at your shirt. "Jesus, Sam, what...get this off, get...lie down, Sam, you're hurt--" and only then do you figure it out and catch his hands, holding them hard.   
  
"Not mine, Dean--"  
  
"Sam,  _Jesus_ , it must have hit a fucking artery or--Sam, let me--"  
  
" _Dean!_  It's not mine, Dean. It's okay, I'm not hurt." And it's true, you're not lying. Lots of blood on you, but not a single scratch. A little bruising tomorrow, maybe, where Dad got you up against the wall before Dean waded in, but none of the blood is yours. Dean stares at you wildly, and you work to keep absolute honesty in your face--not hard, because you're telling the truth--until Dean's hands, still bloodied, relax in yours and he leans back, dizzy.   
  
"Mine?"  
  
"Mostly." And this time you're lying, and the two of you have this much in common--you've both always known when the other was lying. Dean's eyes are white-rimmed now, and you can't look at him so you go back to his hands, wiping the blood methodically like you're cleaning a gun.  
  
"Oh god."  
  
You don't laugh at that, although nothing remotely heavenly seems appropriate. But if you start laughing now you might never stop, and hysterical laughter is just crying by another name.  
  
"Did I kill him?" Dean's question is almost inaudible, and it takes you a second because you don't really want to hear it.  
  
"No--"  
  
"You can tell me--" his hands are shaking again, tangled in your shirt, leaving bloody fingerprints on you. "You can tell me, Sammy. Oh god, did I kill him?"  
  
"No!" You make eye contact again, and you hold it like you've got Dean's arm twisted up behind his back until Dean's eyes fall. "You didn't. I didn't either. He's--" 'fine' would be stretching it, so you just make a safe prediction, "He's gonna be okay."  
  
Dean looks from the blood on his shirt to the blood on your shirt, and then up to you, and you give him more because he deserves it and you both need it: "Broken nose, probably. He bled a lot. But nothing fatal. You're in worse shape, I promise." You offer that like a gift, and Dean is crazy enough to accept it with gratitude. You're grateful, in turn, that he doesn't think to ask why Dad would stand over his beaten son and bleed on him. You aren't ready for that explanation yet.   
  
Dean's head lolls back against the slick, stained material of the bedspread. "What...what happened?"  
  
Something else you don't want to think about. Damn, this is just a great night for repression. "I stopped him."  
  
"You?" Dean's disbelief would be insulting if it weren't for the catch in his voice. Is he...you look up to confirm it, watching twin silver tracks start to carve their way down the blood you hadn't completely cleared away from his face. "You...god, Sammy, I thought he was gonna...hurt you. Why didn't you tell me first? Why did you..." Dean gasps a little, and it's not your fault, it's  _not_ , but a part of you breaks anyway. You should be allowed to make your own decisions. You have a right to your own life.   
  
But yeah. Maybe it would have been cool to let Dean in on it. A heads-up, so to speak. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Sorry." He laughs a little, and it's not hysterical, but it's on the crying end of the continuum all the same. "Sammy, you must have known he'd...you know how he is. You know...you were gonna leave us?"  
  
"Still going to school." You don't know what to say, but the misery on your brother's face demands an explanation. "You're coming with me, now."  
  
Dean isn't listening; no big surprise there. "Why the hell didn't you tell me first? He might have...I could have fixed it if I'd had some warning."  
  
You seriously doubt that. Nothing was going to fix this. Dean might have been able to get Dad to let off some steam beforehand, but this would never have been pretty. Of course, maybe it didn't have to end up quite as ugly as it had. "Maybe you shouldn't have to fix it."  
  
"Yeah, well it's a little late to change things now." It's the closest Dean has come to acknowledging the fucked up dance he and Dad have shared ever since you can remember, and you don't want to accept that you've been calling the tunes for a while, but this has been a night for revelations. You're going to have to spring something bigger than this on him, so you might as well accept Dean's big admission.   
  
"You shouldn't have started this, Dean. Shouldn't have let it get to--" and shit, no, that's blaming the wrong person, so you stop. Breathe. "If Dad was getting mad at me, he should have learned to talk to me about it. Having you to beat on when he was mad at me--that never should have been the deal."  
  
Dean screws up his eyes like he's in pain--and he should be, he hit the wall pretty hard, and boots and fists hit  _him_  pretty hard--and he shakes his head again. A triumph of denial over experience, and he groans as the pain swells again. Unbelievably a small grin, more grimace than amusement, quirks his lip up. "Would have stepped back and let you fight your own battles earlier, if I'd known you had it in you." He snuffles a brief laugh and brings a hand up to wipe his nose and, surreptitiously, his eyes. "Pretty tough, little brother."  
  
You want to let it go, let Dean have one night of rest before his peace of mind is forever shot to hell like yours, but you make the mistake of glancing down, and he follows your gaze to your hands. No blood on your hands except Dean's. No busted knuckles.  
  
"Sammy?"  
  
And now he sounds awake enough that you can let go. You don't want to, but you  _need to_. He's always been there for you--big brothers learn to take it and make it better--and you don't mean to say anything but the words are crowding into your throat, beating their way past your better judgment.   
  
"I don't know what I did, Dean. He had you down and he was kicking you, hurting you, and I saw red, man, I saw blood and I tasted it and I had to stop him and I didn't mean it but I pinned him to the ceiling--" your voice breaks, and Dean is sitting up so fast you didn't see him move.   
  
Gripping your arms hard at the bicep, Dean is holding you to him, pulling you in so that your words are muffled in his shoulder. "I pinned him up there like a shadow, Dean; he had you down and I had to get him off and it just happened; he was up there and his blood ran down like rain. Blood falling on you like a waterfall, Dean, and I pinned him. I held him there, Dean."  
  
"Shh." Dean's voice shakes with terror. "Just shut up. Shut up, Sam." You wish you could.  
  
"I pinned him to the ceiling like..."  
  
"Shut  _up_!"  
  
"Like Mom."


End file.
